Familiar Strangers
by IsomorphicTARDIS
Summary: Sam Winchester is 22 when he is sent back to his family in 1999. One day later in 1999, Sam Winchester is 23, and has no recollection of any past experiences with them. For every day of the week, Sam Winchester ages a year, by Time Travel. Yeah. It's that kind of week. Time Travel with every season on Supernatural up to S7.
1. Chapter 1

**Bwahhhhhh I can't keep doing this. I got bored, procrastinating writing my other stuff, and went on my old computer.**

_**Again.**_

**And I found another thing.**

_**Again.**_

**Turns out, I had a story in my mind of a time travel fic back sometime after I had written come part of Nightmares and Daydreams. So...Instead of giving you another chapter on my recent Time Travel Fic, I'll give you this one instead. It's already got two chapters up, and the first one is nice and long by my standards.**

**Sorry again about all of this, and enjoy.**

**R&R!**

John Winchester was not a man of a relaxed nature.

He was always careful and took sometimes unnecessary precautions just to be safe, hence the various Devil's Traps and salt lines littering the temporary Winchester home.

There had been a major flux in monster activity for some reason, and all logical reasons pointed to the outskirts of Lawrence, Kansas. Of course, the only reason the old Winchester was still stepping foot anywhere near Lawrence, never mind Kansas, was because there were also signs of _him_. The Demon.

Ever since that November, the Winchester had never passed up an opportunity to hunt the bastard. Except this time, he had Dean and Sam to back him up; it was something he rarely put his sons to, but this was going to be worth it.

Someone had to do the research after all; John wasn't exactly going to let his only two sons have any chances near The Demon. So there the boys sat, splayed over the couch in the living room, neither of them barely visible through the mounds of books and loose papers spread about them. John smiled, stepping forward and joining them in their endeavor.

It wasn't until 3:00 in the morning that John awoke and his entire week was turned upside down.

It kept him up almost every night; a nervous worry niggling at the back of his mind that he was never going to catch The Demon. That Mary's death would all be for nothing.

So, he relied on alcohol to distract him. He would wake up at 3:00 every night on the dot, without an alarm clock, and he would get up, sneak down the steps, and grab a beer to share with the silence that came with the cloak of night.

Except tonight was different.

The boys slept in the room across from his, for easy access. So whenever John would sneak through the hall, he would pass by and take a peek to make sure the boys were okay.

The glances around the beds and toward the ceiling were just a simple precaution.

So John woke up at 3:00 sharp, crept along through the hall, checked on his boys, and hovered at the top of the stairs.

Something didn't feel right.

It felt like…like something was hanging in the air…like right before a thunderstorm, when the air was very tense. He shifted his shoulders, ignoring the shiver that crept down his spine. He continued down the stairs with much more practiced stealth than usual on his normal nighttime trips.

However, it seemed like there was nothing to worry about; there was nothing in the living room, the hall leading outside, or the kitchen.

John cast a suspicious glance around the room, looking for any tells. Finding none, he gave an approving nod and barely turned his back to raid the grimy fridge of its beer.

It was only after his fingers closed around the second bottle that he felt it.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up immediately, and his spine softly creaked as it snapped back, ram-rod straight and still before John slowly turned to look at what was behind him. Or, rather, who was behind him.

A man, looking to be in his twenties, stood in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, a book held in a tight grasp between his fingers and a look of complete confusion creasing his face.

His hair was relatively short, reaching just past his ears before changing direction and blowing out sideways. His size and build was one John would have instantly recognized as a hunter, had the man's shoulders not been hunched and his book not read, "Calculus 6".

In an instant, John's gun was drawn and replaced his beer, the Winchester not even batting an eye as the safety clicked off and the barrel was held with disturbing precision at the other man's head.

"Who the hell are you?" he said, his voice taking on a rough edge – he blamed it on dehydration. Who interrupted a man while he was getting a nighttime beer, anyway?

"Uh…Sam. Name's Sam," the man said in an oddly familiar voice as he eyed the gun. "…John?"

John's aim faltered for half a second, but hardened a moment later, his grip tightening a miniscule amount more.

"Depends on who's askin'," he replied in a gruff tone. The man – Sam, he corrected – just raised his eyebrows, though he saw the hesitation in his stance, in the tension in his shoulders.

"Hunter," came the simple answer. John lowered his gun a millimeter.

"A Hunter?" John said, gesturing to his belt, where he kept his Holy Water canteen.

To John's frustration, Sam didn't react as much as he had wanted; he only seemed slightly amused.

"Uh, yeah. Just, kind of…lost. And, without…anything," Sam said, still slightly amused and edgy as John eyed him suspiciously.

"Really? I've never known a hunter to not carry around any necessities _at all times_," John emphasized, and the amusement died off from Sam's face.

"I got out," was all he said before he scouted the room and brought together some salt and holy water. Mixing them together, he took a large gulp and shivered as the taste spread onto his tongue.

No burning, however. Interesting.

"…that's disgusting," Sam said, reaching for a silver and iron dagger and slicing a fine line on the flesh by his elbow. He wiped the daggers on his coat – a practiced move, John noted – and set them back on the table, pulling down the sleeves of his shirt. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is that good enough? Or do you want me to walk though all of the Devil's Traps, too?" Sam said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

John nodded jerkily, finally bringing down his gun all the way.

"What are you doing here, then? Find something you couldn't handle alone?" John said, picking up his two beers from the counter and throwing one to Sam. "'Fraid I might not be able to help. Got two kids upstairs. It urgent?"

"There's nothing. Like I said," Sam stated, taking a drink from the beer. "_I_ got out."

John raised a skeptical eyebrow this time. "Hunters don't just 'get out', son."

Sam gave a chuckle and raised the beer to his lips again. "Most of the time, you're right."

John just shook his head, turning to one of the cabinets and pulling out a bag of chips. "So, Sam. You got a last name?"

"Yeah," Sam said absentmindedly as he inspected the Devil's Trap beneath the carpet. He didn't seem to be wanting to do anything to it, so John waited another moment for him to elaborate before saying, "You going to tell me what it is?"

Sam looked up, and color rushed to his cheeks. "No."

John just nodded slowly, looking at the man as if he had grown a second head. "So, you obviously didn't come here to inspect my craftsmanship. Why're you here?"

Sam finally stood, narrowing his eyes and saying, "I've got no clue."

Again, John waited for an elaboration, but got none. "So you have no idea how you got here. You just…What, _appeared_ in my living room?"

"Pretty much," Sam said with a sigh. Then, looking around the room, his eyes settled on a newspaper nearby. His eyes widened slightly, and he took a few steps forward.

"What?" John said, suddenly alert and ready for anything.

Sam looked at him, puzzled, then said, "No. No, nothing, sorry. Just…it's 1999. Sunday, September 26, 1999. Wow."

John's eyebrow threatened to reach his hairline as he said, "Yeah. It was the 26th about three hours ago…1999. Are you alright?"

"Yeah…yeah, I'm good." Sam looked up at John. "You wouldn't happen to have a cell phone, would you?"

"Yeah. Give me a sec." John moved into the living room and picked up a cell phone from behind a cabinet. He handed it to Sam, who thanked him and began dialing a number.

It rang once, twice, three times, and Sam hung up.

He called again, the phone ringing once, twice, three times, and Sam hung up again.

He did this one more time and then waited all the way through five rings before a female voice came on, "_We're sorry. The call you made could not go through. Please try again later._" Sam didn't bother waiting for the beep before handing the phone back to John, looking a bit like he should've expected what happened.

"Hey, do you mind if I crash here? Just for the night, until I can get an _educated_ person on the credit card company hotline?"

John chuckled. Some things never changed, especially with hunters. He nodded his consent and came back into the room a few seconds later with a small blanket and a pillow for Sam to sleep with on the couch.

Sam thanked him and made his makeshift bed comfortable before reclining slowly and scrubbing a hand down his face. John knew that look all too well. His Sammy makes a face just like it when he's trying to figure something out.

The look is more depressing on the older man's face, his broad cheeks outlining the tired lines creasing the smooth skin. He looked more tired than determined, however, and John found himself pondering whether or not a man could fall asleep that fast a few seconds later.

"Well, at least you don't snore like Dean," John muttered to himself as he made himself a makeshift bed on the seat beside the couch. He passed off the small huff from Sam as an exhausted sigh.

Sam might be a hunter, and a friend by those standards, but that didn't mean John fully trusted him. Only trust a hunter you know. And even then, keep yourself on your toes.

He vowed to ask again in the morning, distracting himself once more with another bottle of beer.

He had a long night ahead of him.

The kid may look like a hunter, but he sure didn't have the sleeping patterns of one.

_I got out,_ echoed through John's head as he reached around another empty beer bottle for the stack of papers that held the weather patterns in all of the places where the Demon had struck. _No one gets out._

It was currently 6:57 in the morning – Sammy and Dean would be coming back down soon to get ready for school.

So far, his excuse was the truth. Partially. Sam was a hunter, and he was going to help John hunt the Demon. Or rather, hunt _down_ the Demon. Only to find it. Sam would understand; this thing had torn apart his family, so he would be the one to end it once and for all.

It was three minutes later that Dean came tromping down the stairs, the noise a large contrast to the silence that preceded it. On the fifth step down, Dean froze, his eyes scanning the room and focusing on the shape on the couch that was Sam. John allowed himself a little smile on the inside. Dean looked wary, ready for any threat, then completely lost as he caught sight of his father. A moment later, he seemed to accept the situation and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

Dutiful as always. John couldn't have been more proud. He called for Dean, who immediately poked his head around the threshold between the living room and the kitchen.

"Sir?" he came the prepared response.

"Come here, I want to show you something," he said in a calm voice, which relaxed Dean more than he would admit.

Dean walked over to the couch where Sam was sleeping and raised his eyebrows.

"Who the hell is this?" he said.

John didn't bother trying to correct him on his language. "Name's Sam. Didn't give a last name."

"So, a hunter?" Dean deducted, looking to his father, who nodded.

"Apparently, a _retired_ hunter."

There was a moment of puzzled silence. Then, "I thought it was impossible to get out."

"It is," John confirmed, "but this guy's saying it's only damn near impossible."

Dean leaned over the man's sleeping form, looking at his face to try to determine how old he was.

However, being a hunter at one point in his life, close proximity while he was asleep was a common sign of danger. Sam's eyes snapped open, glazed but focused completely at the same time. And, before Dean could blink, Sam was sweeping his leg under Dean's, causing him to fall to the ground, looking up at Sam hovering over him with a small, easily concealable knife.

"You're _out_, huh?" John asked, slightly amused.

After apologizing profusely to Dean and helping him up, Sam just shrugged to John. "Old habits."

"Friggin' _awesome_," Dean muttered under his breath. "When did that become a habit?"

Sam chuckled. "When I was about fourteen, my brother used to wake me up by tackling me. I guess I just never sleep lightly in the morning anymore."

A moment of comfortable silence passed, until Dean said, "So, why are you crashing here? I mean, if you're out."

Sam shared a glance with John and saw a familiar warning look. He was going to be improvising, then. "I'm helping John figure out where the Demon is. Then, he kills it and I go home once again."

John's façade almost slipped. He was good.

Dean's eyes narrowed, however. "Wait, you're wasting time with hunting this thing down, but you're not going to help kill it?"

Sam shook his head. "No, man. I already spent most of my life trying to hunt it. That is, until I realized that my mom honestly wouldn't want me trying to kill demons. So, I retired. Going to Stanford, now."

Once Sam said 'Stanford', there was a great thump from upstairs, and all eyes cut to the ceiling, the conversation lost. A few seconds later, Sammy came tumbling down the stairs.

John and Dean both shook their heads in slight amusement, but it was Sam who let out a real laugh.

Sammy froze at the bottom of the steps, one hand on the rail while the other was casually reaching behind his back, where he kept his spare knife. "Who's this?"

Sam stood, revealing his real height of six feet. He extended a hand, saying, "I'm Sam. I'm here to help with the Demon."

"…A hunter?" Sammy asked hesitantly, taking the proffered hand.

"Well, yeah. Not after this, though," Sam said, working his way into the fridge to get a beer.

"I thought hunters never got out. That it was impossible," Sammy said, half-curious and half defensive. Sam had to remind himself that he was always taught that whatever his father said was law. He was grateful that he was always the rebellious kid, though.

"Well, I guess that makes me the living exception that proves the rule," Sam replied, stretching his arms out in an eagle position. He walked over to the couch, taking a swig of his beer before replacing his knife to his back pocket from where he had gingerly placed it on the coffee table.

Dean seemed to relax imperceptibly, and Sam shot him an apologetic glance, silently berating himself for not noticing his uncomfortable stance earlier.

Sam looked around the house. It was cracked and broken, just like the family that resided inside, and it may have some water damage and serious mold problems, but it was theirs.

It was their first actual house, their mother's house from back when his father and his mother were only dating. It held so many memories, many of which Sam still doesn't remember, and he heaved a long and tired sigh.

Then, he realizes that he's been spaced out for more than a minute and the others are looking at him, wondering if he's okay, and he tells them yes, he's okay, or at least what sounds like yes, he can't really just look at them without seeing all that he's been through and all that he's ever been, and it _hurts_, but he can't leave _because_ it hurts, and something is wrong, but he doesn't care, because he can't do anything against this perfection, this wonder that was his childhood –

"I've got to go," he says, managing to keep his voice from cracking as he stands. "The library closes soon and I wouldn't want to miss out on some more research." He sends John a meaningful look, thanks them, and walks straight out the door.

He stands for a moment, dazed, until he comes back to reality. There was really only one thing to do, now.

Time to find out how to get back to his own time.

**Yes, that last part will be explained.**

**Yes, it will happen in a later chapter that has not been written yet.**

**Yes, this doesn't just involve one Sam Winchester.**

**Yes, I cannot wait until the eighth chapter.**

**No, I will not give that spoiler, though you could probably guess it.**

**And, once more, I apologize for all of this, but I would really appreciate it if you would**

**R&R!**

**~IsomorphicTARDIS**


	2. Chapter 2

**Welp, here you go. Not much to say, so,**

**R&R!**

In retrospect, Sam realized, it probably wasn't a good idea to stay inside his old house. Especially since he was completely _freaking out._ He was just on his way, ready to call Dean and his father at what his visions had implied, when he blinked and found himself inside his old house when he was ten.

So, naturally, he went digging.

He dug, and he dug deep, through all of his old possessions and all of John's and Dean's things to find _something_ that would help him get an idea of why he was suddenly sent back to 1999.

It wasn't until the front door opened and shut that he realized he had been up in his room, rifling through his old stuff until Sammy came back from school to see him there like a sitting duck.

Whoops.

Sam took a quick risk and dove under the bed, wincing at the soft thump he made.

A small part of his mind was hoping they hadn't heard, but all logic and reason pushed that thought aside; he was taught never to ignore sounds like that and to always be alert for them.

Sam held his breath as he heard someone enter his room, and identified the person as his younger self, judging by his shoes and pant legs.

It was eerily silent as Sam cursed himself repeatedly in his head – he hadn't put anything back, so things would be strewn all over the room, making it look exactly like they had been robbed.

He saw Sammy duck and grab under a cabinet for a couple of fallen photographs, and he reveled in the young features that would slowly deteriorate over the years.

A couple of minutes later, after Sammy had cleaned up nicely and pondered what happened for a while, the young boy left.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind him. He slowly crawled out from under the bed and stood up, rubbing his temples softly. He felt another headache coming on.

He stopped to consider if a gun to the neck could worsen a headache as a pistol was pressed against his head. It did, he concluded.

"Who the hell are – " Dean's teenage voice rang through the room, but cut off before he could finish. In that moment, Sammy burst through the door, yelling, "Did you catch – "

"Sam?" they both said at the same time.

"What the hell?" Sammy and Dean shared identical, confused looks, and Sam looked similar, when the back door was slammed downstairs.

"Boys!" came the holler from John Winchester.

Sammy backed up from the room, standing in the threshold for a moment before taking off downstairs.

A few moments later, John walked, tense, Sammy in tow.

"What the hell? Sam?" John said, reaching for his weapons.

Sam held his hands up in a surrendering motion, saying, "Okay, I don't know what you're talking about, but before you do anything, I'm not a – "

John interrupted him, splashing a canteen of salty Holy Water in Sam's face.

"…demon," Sam finished, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Will you listen, now?"

John cast him a wary glance, saying, "You said you don't know what we're talking about. What's the last thing you remember?"

Sam hesitated. What _was_ the last thing he remembered? Well, the migraine and the visions were pretty clear, but everything after that was blurry. He remembered voices, John's and Dean's, and hands, but that was it. He voiced this, and they looked at him warily.

"You…you don't remember…anything?"

Sam's eyebrows narrowed as he said in a strained whisper, "John, what did I do?"

John gave a dry chuckle. "Nothing. You didn't do anything."

Sam eyed him warily for a moment more before nodding. "What, uh," he gulped. "What do you know about me?"

"Not much. You wanna come downstairs for a beer? We can talk about it down there. And judging by whatever the hell's going on, I _definitely_ need a beer," John groaned, turning and walking down the steps, not hesitating to see if Sam was coming along.

Dean trailed after him immediately, but Sammy waited until Sam started moving to follow behind.

They all sat down in the circle of worn out chairs and sofas, while John took a couple of beers from the fridge. He threw one to Sam, who caught it cleanly and took a small sip.

"Alright, so. What do you know?"

"Well," John started, "Last time I saw you, you just _appeared_ in my living room with a textbook. Apparently, you got out and went to _Stanford_. Remember?"

Sam laughed, a bitter, unwelcome noise, and John shifted a bit in his seat. "Yeah, I remember. Didn't work out as well as I had planned." This time he gulped down almost half the bottle of beer.

"So…it really _is_ impossible to get out?" Sammy said, looking up at Sam.

"Well," Sam said, drinking some more. "I mean, I only got out for about four years. But I do know someone who managed to get out for more than twenty."

John shot a quick glance Sam's way, but he seemed to be avoiding his gaze.

"How old are you?" John asked, and Sam raised a surprised eyebrow.

"Uh, 23. Why?"

John stood up slowly, gaining a slightly defensive position, causing Dean and Sam to do the same. "Last time you came in here, you were _22. _You telling me you just aged a year in a day?"

Sam just shrugged, not even slightly put off by the confrontational pose he was all to familiar with. It was more the situation that put him on edge. So, he was here when he was 22, but no time has passed? That sounded a lot like time travel. But that didn't exist, right?

"What if he's from the future or something? Dude, that'd be like, the coolest thing _ever_," Dean said, getting a warning glance from John.

Sam stared at Dean, reveling in the sheer genius of his younger years. In a way, he _was_ from the future, but from a year _further_ in the perspective of his _other _future self.

Those stupid Soap Operas weren't kidding. Time travel was confusing.

But what was he supposed to say? He wouldn't be able to pass it off, pretending not to be from the future; according to his Dean, he still has the tells he had when he was a kid. But the truth was way more farfetched. I mean, a 14-year old _Dean_ just thought it up.

But still, he had a point. He certainly looked older now than he did a year ago; the hunting made sure of that. Who's to say wasn't from the future?

Ignoring all logic and reasoning, Sam blurted out, "It's not."

They all turned to stare at him, probably waiting for him to elaborate, saying that he meant it probably wouldn't be cool, or that he was joking.

"What?" he said into the silence. "It can't be _that_ far out the window."

"Time travel doesn't exist," John stated firmly, as if he could drill it into Sam's brain. Or convince himself of it.

Sam thought for a moment. "When I was here last," he started, looking up at them. "Did I see the date? Anywhere?"

John thought back, but kept a stony face. "Yeah!" Sammy blurted out, and two glares met him, from which he shirked away from.

Sam lifted his head in triumph. "And I was surprised?"

"…very," grumbled John. "But that still doesn't prove anything. You could've been drunk and forgot the date. So what?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "So, you know I wasn't drunk. The only time I ever get drunk is if I have my brother with me. Hunting requires it."

John just raised an eyebrow, to which Sam sighed.

"Fine. You want real proof? Here," he dug inside his pockets and brought out his cell phone – A 2006 black Motorola RAZR. He threw it to John, who caught it with practiced ease.

"What is this?" he flipped it open. He flinched at the bright screen, but looked out at it in confusion. "Is this…"

"A cell phone? Yeah. Made in China, 2006. That proof enough for you?"

John looked up at Sam and handed him his phone back.

Dean's eyes tracked the phone's every move, from John's hand to Sam's, and to Sam's pocket. Sam turned to him. "Don't even think about it," he said, pointing an accusing finger at him, though a smile was growing on his face. Dean raised his hands in mock surrender and said, "Guilty as charged."

"So, who are you?" Sammy said, more interested in Sam than his phone.

Sam shifted in his seat. "Uh…I don't think I should tell you that."

Dean huffed. "Well, you've already met some people in the past, what harm is an identity going to do? We probably don't even know you."

Sam laughed at that. "Maybe you don't recognize me now, but trust me. You know me better than anyone."

Dean's eyes widened, and he said softly, "Does that mean…Am I…Gay?"

There was a moment of silence, in which Sam took to process what Dean had just said.

Suddenly, Sam was outright _laughing_, flinging his head back as he leaned forward and said, "No, no, no, Dean. You're not – " he giggled, trying to compose himself. "You're not gay. Not at all."

Dean fell back in his chair with a relaxed sigh. Sam's shoulders were still shaking from laughing. All John could think was, _it's a Monday._

Sammy shook his head at his brother's antics, then said, "So was the other Sam _you_ a year ago?" Sam nodded.

"That's probably why you didn't remember anything. It was a year ago, and I suspect 'Time Travel' probably doesn't feel very good," John said, obviously looking at Sam in a new light.

But whether that light was brighter or darker, Sam wasn't sure. And he honestly didn't want to stick around to find out.

Whatever he did a year ago, it seems he had left in a hurry. Maybe it was time for him to go, too.

He took one quick look around the house, feeling the waves of nostalgia hit him full on, and he stood abruptly, giving the house a fond smile.

He told the broken family in front of him goodbye, and watched as they attempted to protest, but he was already by the door, and he didn't want to disturb them anymore, so he thanked them for the company and the beer, and the hospitality, and shut the door behind him.

He knew something didn't feel right about leaving so soon, but right now he didn't care. He needed to get back to his own time, not stick around in his past.

Who knows what he would try and do if he stayed?

**Hopefully, I will update soon, as I have some of the next chapter started. **

**Hope you liked it! R&R!**

**~IsomorphicTARDIS**


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